


ordinary, everyday things

by pdameron



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-SPECTRE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: It is fourteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts that he finds himself at the helm of MI6’s Q Branch, 29 and thrilled and terrified and completely alone.(In which everything is the same except Q and Bond are both wizards and think the other is a muggle.)





	ordinary, everyday things

**Author's Note:**

> listen someone pointed out that ben whishaw is the same age that harry&co would be and then i couldn't stop thinking about it
> 
> another huge thank you to my one and only [gammadolphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin) for being my beta yet again

It is fourteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts that he finds himself at the helm of MI6’s Q Branch, 29 and thrilled and terrified and completely alone.

He is made Quartermaster after the attack on Vauxhall, which left M’s office a shell and Q Branch leaderless. Q adjusts to the role quickly (he supposes Mr. Ollivander was right all those years ago when he told him his quite flexible wand signified adaptability), not because he’s power-hungry or particularly willing to step in for his late mentor, Boothroyd, but because he _has to_. His co workers, now subordinates, who he’s considered tentative friends, are distrustful of how easily he seems to move on from the trauma. He hears the words _cyborg_ and _android_ whispered often, and though he knows they are jokes, they are not always well-intentioned.

He adapts quickly in part because there’s _no time_ to grieve, because this unknown assailant is dangerous, damn it, and they don’t know his motives. But mostly, he thinks, he can throw himself back into the fray because he’s learned how to compartmentalize, learned how to drown in sorrow but _keep moving_.

Q wants to tell the others, wants to tell his new R that he’s _not_ an android, not so cold and unfeeling, but how does one explain that their coping techniques stem from a war that none of them have ever heard of? How does one explain that they’ve seen classmates, teachers, _friends_ , ravaged by human werewolves, trampled by monstrous spiders, engulfed in flames that water will not extinguish? One doesn’t, unless one wants to be sent to the nearest asylum.

So he allows the whispers, the doubts, the uncertainties for now, because they aren’t stopping anyone from doing their job, and that’s all that matters.

Three days later, Q meets James Bond. It takes all his not inconsiderable willpower to ignore the heady rush that comes with a challenge, with intrigue, with a sudden surge of _want_ , and go back to Q Branch with a (mostly) clear head.

Days after that, Q, in front of Bond and Q Branch, lives up to the old stereotypes that cling to his house as his blind arrogance leads to Silva’s escape and puts hundreds of lives in danger. ‘Not such a clever boy,’ indeed.

Q wonders, idly, if Silva isn’t a dark wizard himself, but puts the thought away because he’s never heard of a Raoul Silva, not even during the war. Surely he would have been a death eater.

He tries, desperately, to think of a way his magic might help Bond, of a spell he could cast, a trick he can pull from out of his sleeve, but there is _always_ someone at his shoulder, and he’s too focused on directing Bond.

After the attack on the Parliament building, but before Bond asks him to throw his career away to help him, Q turns to his branch. They’ve been working in relative silence, though he’d felt their eyes on him the entire time he’d been on comms with Bond.

He laughs, but it’s a hollow, humorless thing. “No android would have made that kind of mistake, eh?”

He can practically feel the technicians recoil, and he’s surprised when he feels no sort of vindication at the sight of their faces flooding with guilt. R steps forward, reaching her hand out toward him hesitantly.

“Q…”

He waves her off. “You all can go home. I’ll stay on comms in case Bond resurfaces.”

Bond does resurface, and Q stays in that cold and washed out bunker, waiting by his computers long after he earns the trust of MI6’s most deadly agent, long after the last fires at Skyfall have burned out.

 

(Here are the things Q does not see, while he is sitting in that bunker and waiting for Bond to call:

He does not see Bond pulling his yew wand out and muttering _‘Lumos’_  in front of a curious M when his flashlight dies.

He does not see Bond destroy his childhood home with several shouted incantations and some well-placed gas tanks before ducking into the old tunnels beneath the house.

He does not see Bond fall into an icy lake, using a bubblehead charm just before he starts to drown.

And he definitely does not see Bond consider whether spending the rest of his life in Azkaban is worth using the killing curse on Silva.

It isn’t, and Bond takes much more satisfaction in throwing the knife in Silva’s back.)

 

 

*****

 

 

It’s been twelve years since he left the magical world behind, and six since he first walked into the SIS headquarters, and Q has never felt more at home than he does among his computers and gadgets.

Leaving the magical world does not, of course, mean that he’s left _magic_ , because it is as much a part of him as his codes and his cats and his terrible eyesight. So he lets himself be free in the quiet moments, in the dark of his flat or the vast emptiness of Q Branch in the wee hours of the morning, where he can easily erase the footage of him tinkering with both his tools _and_ his wand.

It is in such moments, when his worlds collide in perfect harmony, that Q feels at peace, even if he is the only one to see it. He takes apart his cars and his gadgets, watches the gears and engines and screws and bolts float through the air, delights as they come back together with a wave of his wand. He casts shield charms over watches and cufflinks and sunglasses, whatever gadgets his agents wear. For all that MI6 is a muggle agency, it faces no shortage of magical threats, and he’s more than once watched a dark wizard’s jaw drop as they try to stun one of his agents only to have it bounce right back. Serves them right for thinking Q wouldn’t protect his own. The shield charms are meant for magical threats, however. They’re not enough to stop a muggle bullet, but perhaps enough to slightly slow a knife on its way to an agent’s heart, or lessen the effects of a taser.

Q loves his magic, loves to watch his inventions come apart then reassemble with a simple _Reparo_ , loves to watch as his cats chase his raccoon patronus around his flat in the evening when his blinds are closed, loves to summon the nearest screwdriver without moving when he’s tinkering, loves to stir his tea with a wave of his hand while he’s reading or coding at his desk (at home, only at home).

There are days when he’s fit to burst with the tension of holding it in, with the stress of hiding near constantly. It is on these days that he leaves work early (someone long before him had cast a spell not unlike the one around Hogwarts: he can’t apparate in or out of Churchill’s old bunkers, or before then Vauxhall) and apparates to somewhere remote and safe, and just lets himself _be_ , more than he ever could in his tiny flat or his workshop.

He throws sparks in the air, red and green and purple, laughing with delight as they trickle back down around him; He blows things up _without_ dynamite; he makes a beetle as big as a house before shrinking it back down; he reduces an abandoned farmhouse to dust…all the spells and charms he can’t cast in crowded, unsafe muggle London all at once it feels like, until he’s spent and exhausted and apparates straight into to his bed.

But for all that he looks forward to those rare days, for all that it’s tiring at times to constantly hide this huge part of himself, Q is happy, generally. He loves his job, is enormously fond of the people he works with (especially Miss Moneypenny, who became a fast friend nearly as soon as he was made R two years ago), and enjoys the constant challenges and twists and turns that come with a life in espionage. Yes, there are times when it gets terribly lonely, but more often than not those are followed by a letter from someone back home, and his spirits are easily lifted with a story from his old professors or a moving photograph of Luna’s little twins.

In the months following Skyfall he gets to know the double-ohs quite well, running missions and equipping them in a never ending cycle. He likes them all, but it becomes quickly apparent that Bond is Q’s favorite. He tries not to show it, tries not to be too blatant in his favoritism, and he mostly succeeds, although he has the sneaking suspicion that Bond is all too aware of his fondness for him.

For all that Bond destroys nearly everything Q gives him, he’s one of the few agents who seems genuinely interested in what his quartermaster makes. Q had told him, at their first meeting, that they didn’t really go in for exploding pens and the like anymore, but that was largely because he was being a little shit and didn’t want to seem too young or over eager. So when Q shows Bond the exploding cufflinks he’s made, inspired loosely by the agent’s favored pair, and the other man practically vibrates with excitement, it’s immensely satisfying. And if the cufflinks have a particularly strong shield charm built into them, well, it’s not like Bond will ever find out.

Besides, it’s not Q’s fault that the man is so goddamn attractive.

 

 

*****

 

 

A year after Skyfall, a year after his sudden promotion, Q gets the shock of his life in the form of Eve Moneypenny. They’re having their usual lunch date, this time in a small cafe just across from MI6, when she asks, apropos of nothing:

“So you’re a wizard, right?”

And Q drops his sandwich into his tea.

He calls in sick to work, does the same for Eve, and all but drags her back to his apartment, where he politely but panickedly interrogates her. Apparently, she’d had a boyfriend a few years back, and it had been serious enough that he told her.

“Oliver always was a bit odd, and I was too nosy for my own good. Once I got over how mad he sounded, it made sense,” She says with a shrug, and Q is extremely put out, not only because he’s apparently a terrible secret wizard, but because she’d gotten to date _Oliver Wood_.

Eve promises that it’s not that he’s not doing a bad job of hiding, but rather that she just knows him too well.

They spend the day curled up with his cats as Q shows her what magic he can do in his tiny apartment. Minerva (named after his former professor, if only to see the look on her face when he told her: mildly offended, but mostly flattered), his spotted tabby, doesn’t even react when he floats her across the room, so used to his antics; while Marie (named for Madame Curie), his little white persian, is only mildly surprised when he briefly turns her fur blue.

He shows her his wand (Beech with a phoenix feather core, twelve inches and highly flexible), and lets her inspect it for as long as she likes. She points out that the little geometric carvings on the handle look like a circuit board, and Q, after looking more closely and agreeing with her assessment, laughs and says that the wand _does_ choose the wizard, after all.

Eve doesn’t ask many questions, happy to just watch as Q finally shows her his whole self. However, when he shows her his patronus (because patronuses are _cool_ , and his cats really do love to play with it), she asks what it is he thinks about when he casts the spell. Oliver’s had been a falcon, she said, and he’d explained the concept.

So Q tells her about Luna.

He tells her about the scared little eleven year old boy, who had never heard of Hogwarts or purebloods or Quidditch. He tells her about that boy, who was sorted into Slytherin because he was so very cunning and so very desperate to prove himself.

(“I thought Slytherins were assholes?”

“Well, _I_ _'m_  an asshole, but not all of us are.”)

He tells her about that very first night, about the look on Astoria Greengrass’s face in front of that bright green fireplace when she’d asked him what his parents did and he’d told her they were physicists, but not _magic_ physicists, just regular ones. That had been the first time he’d been called a mudblood, but it was nowhere near the last.

He tells Eve about the days, the weeks, the months, spent alone in a quiet corner of the common room, about how none of his Slytherin brothers and sisters wanted to be his partner in potions, about how they called him a mistake. Then he tells her about the girl people called ‘Loony’ Lovegood, the girl no one would talk to because she too was different. He tells her about the day he walked to the Ravenclaw table, and not the Slytherin, and sat next to the blonde girl sitting all by herself.

She’d looked at him and asked why a little snake would come and sit with the strange eagle, and he’d told her it was because he was just as alone as she was. Two days later, she asked him what he thought of nargles, and he’d decided that if not three months ago he didn’t believe in unicorns, then why wouldn’t nargles be real?

She’d smiled, and said she was so happy to finally have a friend.

“....and that’s what I think about when I cast my patronus.”

Eve hugs him then, and they fall asleep leaning against each other on his old green leather couch.

His late nights alone in Q branch become late nights with _Eve_ in Q Branch, and he can’t believe he’d gone so long without sharing his magic with anyone, without having someone with him, wizard or not. He makes her tea or conjures a wrench with a wave of his wand, if only to see her smile, and sometimes he takes her with him on those days when the little things just aren’t enough and he needs to something huge and wild to take the edge off. She particularly enjoys it when he grows her an entire field of sunflowers.

Simply put, Q’s life gets a little less lonely.

Of course, not long after Eve’s little revelation Q gets his own opportunity at shock and awe, during a meeting with Mallory and Tanner.

“Q, what I am about to tell you is going to sound unbelievable, even mad. It is, of course, highly classified, and to be handled with the utmost discretion.”

Q already knows where this is headed, but he decides then and there to have a little fun with it.

“Q, we are not alone in this world,” Mallory says solemnly, and it takes all of Q’s restraint not to snort.

“Sir, are you telling me that aliens are real?” Q replies with what he hopes is an admirable poker face.

Mallory sighs, and he could swear it seems almost…fond. “Of course your first thought would be aliens. No, Q: _Magic_ ,” he says it with possibly more gravitas than is necessary, perhaps to further convince Q that he is indeed telling the truth.

“You mean like in _Narnia_ , or _Lord of the Rings_ , or _Peter Pan_? Like a children’s story?” And Q tries so, so hard not to laugh when Mallory _actually nods_ in response.

“If that’ll help you to understand, then yes. There are witches and wizards, like Gandalf or...uh….”, he pauses, no doubt trying to think of a magical person from some other children’s story.

“Er...Mary Poppins, sir?” Tanner pipes up.

“Yes, thank you Mr. Tanner, Mary Poppins, living among us, keeping their magic a secret, and - Q, I know this is hard to wrap your head around, but it’s a bit rude to laugh in your employer’s face, don’t you think?”

Q can’t help it. He’s laughing so hard there are tears running down his cheeks, because Mallory has actually just tried to explain magic to him by referencing Mary _bloody_ Poppins. He can’t actually speak through his chuckles, so he simply pulls his wand from the holster under his sleeve and lifts Tanner’s teacup to get his point across.

His giggles have only just died down when he finally looks at the two men, and the looks on their faces set him off again. All in all, it takes about five minutes for Q to get a hold of himself.

“So. You’re a wizard, then,” Mallory says flatly.

“Yes. I would have told you, sir, but I’m not actually allowed to tell a muggle unless their lives are in danger or they’re a romantic partner.”

Mallory and Tanner exchange a look, and the MI6 head simply sighs, seemingly resigned to forever be slightly out of the loop.

 

 

*****

 

 

As soon as the dust has settled in the wake of the Spectre debacle, nearly a month after Bond leaves with the Aston Martin and what little is left of Q’s broken heart, he puts in for two weeks leave. M takes one look at his face and gives him a month instead.

Q shows up at Luna’s doorstep on a Wednesday morning without any warning, after not seeing her in the flesh for nearly three years. He isn’t remotely surprised when she wraps him up in a hug as soon as she sees him. She doesn’t let go until he stops shaking, and he realizes in that moment just how badly he’d needed her.

She takes him inside, pours him a cup of tea, and sits with him as he breaks all the treaties he’s just signed and tells her everything, from Austria to Blofeld to Denbigh to Bond. She holds him through it all, and in return tells him things to make him smile: the twins are nearly six, and just last week Lysander sneezed and turned the couch they’re sitting on into mulch; Rolf is in Sweden hunting for the ever-elusive crumple-horned snorkack; and she’s going to meet Neville in the Leaky Cauldron for tea next weekend, would he like to come?

Q has never been particularly close with Neville Longbottom, but he’d be glad to visit Diagon Alley: the last time he’d been it had been a shadow of the vibrant place he’d grown up with, crawling with Death Eaters.

So he spends the week playing with the twins while Luna works on her next magizoology book (this time about the many purposes and uses of wrackspurts, Q can’t wait for his signed copy), delighting in their smiles and unbridled enthusiasm, and he’s been a shit godfather, hasn’t he? He wonders to himself, as Lysander dozes off against his shoulder, and Lorcan chases the little birds he’s conjured around the Scamanders’ spacious yard, if he really oughtn’t have stayed in the Wizarding World after all. It certainly would have saved him a lot of heartache.

But then he remembers Eve, and Tanner and R and his gadgets and the agents who rely on him and the lives he’s helped to save and thinks it’s been worth every painful moment put together.

When he and Luna walk into the Leaky Cauldron to see not just Neville Longbottom but what looks like the _every witch and wizard he knows_ , the glare Q sends his friend could melt ice caps.

“Luna…”

She just gives him one of those patented Lovegood smiles and asks, “Would you have come otherwise?” His scowl is answer enough. “Exactly.”

She gives him a fond pat on the cheek and then takes his hand to drag him toward the bar. “But Luna, I wasn’t in Dumbledore’s Army. You know that, and _they_ know that.”

Q, who had been in his third year when Umbridge had taken over Hogwarts, had declined when Luna invited him to join Harry Potter’s new underground club. Not because he didn’t agree with their choices or even because he didn’t want to, but because the thought of the other Slytherins discovering him had been too much for the boy who would be Q. Nearly all of them had already hated him for being a muggleborn Slytherin and tainting their house’s name, and he hadn’t wanted to exacerbate the situation.

“Yes, but you showed up when it counted. Anyway, I have someone who wants to talk to you.” And Q found himself face to face with Arthur Weasley. He was older now, his red hair slowly giving way to gray, but Q could spot a Weasley from a mile off. Just before she leaves him to go visit Neville and the others, Luna whispers in his ear: “I’ve already told everyone you go by Q now. Better than having to reintroduce yourself, don’t you think?”

“Ah, Q! Good to see you lad. Now, I don’t mean to pry, but Luna tells me you’ve been living in the muggle world! Say, on the topic of muggles…”

And this is how Q finds himself talking with Arthur Weasley for two hours about blurring the lines between muggle and wizard, technology and magic. Padma Patil, who now teaches Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, joins them around the one hour mark, and soon enough there is a small circle of people around Q talking and joking and bickering with him as if they’re old friends. When the conversation naturally starts to dwindle, he asks Arthur why it is that everyone is so familiar with him, when they haven’t spoken in over fifteen years.

“It’s hard to go through something like what you all, what _we_ all have without forming _some_ sort of attachment. They care about you much in the same way I imagine you care about them,” The older man gives him a cheeky grin. “Plus, you’re not so horrible, for a Slytherin.”

Q laughs, and soon enough it’s only himself, Arthur, and Padma, the latter of whom somehow convinces him to come in and be a guest speaker in her muggle studies classes the following week. He suspects the firewhiskey is to blame.

Q finds that he has something to talk or reminisce about with nearly everyone there, much to his surprise. At some point he ends up sitting with Dennis Creevey and Ginny Weasley, and he regales them with the story of his first kiss, which had been with the elder Creevey brother. To this day, Q’s convinced that Colin only kissed him because he looked vaguely like Harry Potter, with his dark shaggy hair and his green eyes and his glasses, although he’s a fair bit paler than the other man. At fourteen, this had been a devastating realization, but at thirty two it’s a fond, funny memory of a friend long since lost. Dennis certainly finds it funny, and that’s the whole point, really.

He asks Ginny where Bill is, as it would seem the whole of the Weasley Clan is present excepting the eldest brother, and she tells him he’s off in France helping an old school mate through a tough breakup. Bill always was so nice, Q says, and so _dreamy_.  Dennis points out that Fleur is pretty dreamy too, and this sparks a pub-wide discussion on who had a crush on whom when they were teenagers. Q isn’t the least bit surprised that almost everyone had once had a thing for Oliver Wood. He had been eleven during Wood’s last year, and even _he’d_ been a bit in love.

During the evening Q also catches up on all the gossip he’d missed that Luna either didn’t care enough about to include in his letters or just didn’t know: Astoria Greengrass is now a Malfoy and she’s named her son Scorpius, because _of course she has_ ; Professor McGonagall has sworn to retire the day before James Potter Jr. arrives at Hogwarts; and Blaise Zabini eloped with Marcus Belby six months ago. Once Q recovers from the fact that Zabini apparently got over himself enough to fall for _Marcus Belby_ , of all people, he mourns the loss of any opportunity he might have had to shag that beautiful, beautiful man.

Q leaves the Leaky Cauldron with a promise to correspond with Arthur about his magic-infused muggle gadgets; a standing date with Padma for 11 o’clock Monday morning just outside Hogwarts; a promise to beta test some Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products with his muggle explosives; and Lee Jordan’s phone number, which he probably won’t use but appreciates nonetheless. He realizes as he and Luna drunkenly go to their rented room upstairs (they’d had the foresight to realize they’d probably be too drunk to apparate without losing an ear or eyebrow or limb) that he hasn’t thought about James bloody Bond in nearly five hours.

 

 

*****

 

 

Q comes back to work after his leave feeling lighter than he has in years. Having Moneypenny all but tackle him into a hug helps ease the nerves he’s been having at the thought of returning to MI6 and reopening old wounds.

And they _have_ been opened, as everything around him, even with Q Branch moved back into HQ, reminds him of Bond in some way.

But it’s easier to handle the heartbreak, he’s realized, when he shares it. So he finally tells Moneypenny what she’s already suspected: that yes, he was horribly in love, and yes, he is a bit of a mess. He’s inordinately pleased when she vows to kick Bond in the balls the next time she sees him, even though there won’t _be_ a next time.

It also helps that he’s _finally_ taught Luna how to use a mobile phone, and she calls him fairly regularly.

The first time she calls him during work, he answers only because he's bored and waiting for 008 to check in. The entirety of Q Branch hears her shouting about her theories on why unicorn blood is silver. They stare at him long after he hung up, until he shrugs.

“We all have that one daft friend, right?”

His next lesson with Luna is about volume control.

Bond waltzes into MI6 not two months after Q’s vacation, and he seriously considers throwing his laptop at his smug, stupid, handsome face.

Q calls Lee Jordan that night, because _fuck Bond_ , that’s why. Lee is charming and friendly and funny and he doesn’t mind that Q is emotionally unavailable, and the sex is _fantastic_.

He’s angry, but no so tactless as to ask what happened with Dr. Swann. But after a few weeks observation he realizes that Bond is a little less smug and a lot more reckless. The cockiness is largely a front, whereas before it was only a little bit for bluster. At one point, Q considers slipping Bond some felix felicis if only to get the other man to smile like he _means_ it.

Well, that won’t do.

He corners Bond one night after luring him to R&D under the pretense of weapon testing.

“I know that you feel like you have nothing to lose anymore, or that you’re unlovable, or whatever heartbroken bullshit you’ve come up with post-breakup, but it’s not true. So quit being so careless, and stop making me work twice as hard to keep you alive.”

What he means to say is this: _Stop making me worry so much. Stop scaring me. Come back to me._

Bond looks shocked for all of five seconds before he smiles, warm and fond and _genuine_. “I missed you too, Q.”

Things go back to normal after that, or as normal life at MI6 can get.

That is, until a particularly unusual mission in Bulgaria.

The mark is a corrupt politician, an ambassador taking bribes to look the other way as arms and explosives are smuggled through the Bulgarian embassy into Britain. They don’t know what the target is, hence Bond’s involvement. Otherwise, they would have simply arrested the woman.

Katerina Poliakoff is a beautiful, cunning, snake of a woman, with a knife at her hip and a near permanent smirk on her red, red lips. She is exactly Bond’s type, to a T.

It takes less than a hour for her to bring Bond back to her home, and another fifteen minutes for Bond to go off the rails.

When they arrive, Poliakoff gives Bond a drink from her personal bar, and the agent comments that he’s never had liquor that smells like Earl Grey before. She smiles knowingly and goes to powder her nose. Q can’t get a good visual on the drink from where his camera is attached to Bond’s tie pin, but it looks almost pearlescent.

He hears the agent sniff it again, hears him mutter “Oh, _fuck me_ ,” before addressing Q directly. “Q, she’s trying to drug me. Going dark.”

To which Q replies: “What? No!” because if Bond’s cover is blown the _last_ thing he should do is cut off communication, but it’s too late. Bond has slipped the camera into his jacket pocket and switched off his earpiece.

Bond returns two days later successful and in one piece, and Q is _fuming_. He rants for ten minutes at the man, complaining about stupidity and irresponsibility and valuable assets and _hadn’t they talked about this?_ But he cuts himself off when he notices the way Bond is looking at him; like he’s never seen him before, like he’s a puzzle the other man is trying to unravel. Q’s not sure he likes it.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Bond startles at Q’s words, and that’s when he realizes that the agent hasn’t been listening to _a word he’s said_ , and he gets distracted from the odd look on his face because “Are you _kidding me_ , Bond?”

He has never so badly wanted to break the law and jinx a muggle. Maybe a jelly-legs jinx. Or maybe he’ll turn Bond into a duck or something.

After what Q dubs the Bloody Bulgaria Mission, Bond is in Q Branch _all the time_. Before Spectre, before Bond took advantage of their tentative friendship, Q would have been pleased with this development, but now he’s just suspicious. Bond must want something, he thinks, so he tries to keep his guard up.

Bond’s interest in Q’s gadgets has extended to the man himself now, and Q has no idea what to do with this attention. He asks inane questions about how Q’s weekend was, if he’s getting enough sleep, how he’s enjoying work. He asks after the cats, who he had apparently thought didn’t exist and were instead a joke Q had made up at the time. He asks about the (unmoving) picture of Lorcan and Lysander that Q has put out on the desk in his office, and seems genuinely surprised to learn that Q has godchildren, that Q has a life outside of MI6.

Q would be offended, but he does spend almost all his time in his branch.

In return Bond offers little tidbits of himself. Q knows most of the big stuff, if only because it’s all laid bare in the other man’s file, but he’s reluctantly enchanted by the small things: Bond’s favorite book is _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ ; Bond had a pet falcon called Roderick growing up; Bond hates spiders, citing some mission in the Caribbean as a reason; Bond used to collect sport trading cards as a boy… and Q finds that despite the walls he’s been trying to put up that he is if anything more in love than ever.

When Q finally, after a month, asks Bond what he's playing at, the agent just shrugs.

“I had a bit of a rude awakening on that Bulgaria job, that’s all,” and this is all Q can get out of the man.

 

 

*****

 

 

Bond has been missing for two months when Q Branch is infiltrated, though not by muggle means.

 

( _“Well, Q, it looks like I’ll be a little late for dinner,”_ Bond had quipped over the comms before jumping headfirst into a burning building, ignoring Q’s frantic shouting.

The building had been completely engulfed in flames within minutes, and collapsed not long after that.

Bond had not emerged from the rubble.

Q has yet to accept that Bond might not actually be missing in action this time. That Bond might actually be… )

 

Perhaps it is exhaustion from working at all hours searching for the agent; perhaps it is sheer incompetence; or perhaps it is his growing despair as the weeks without Bond drag on, but it takes a good fifteen minutes before Q realizes.

There is a dementor in MI6.

Well, there’s a dementor in Q Branch.

Technically, there’s a dementor in Q’s little workshop on the Thames and not in Q Branch _itself_ , but still.

There is a dementor in MI6.

His muggle underlings are shivering, bemused at the chill pervading the room despite the mid-July heat outside, and Q watches in numb shock as his tea begins to harden and freeze in his mug.

The dementor has been hovering just inside the wide entryway, no doubt having floated in through the open tunnels that lead to the river. The creature is, if anything, even more frightening than what Q remembers of its kind. He stays frozen, terrified at the sight of this relic of that harrowing time all those years ago, until the dementor starts to move into the room and toward John.

John - who of course cannot see the dementor and does not understand why his chest has begun to feel tight or why he's started shivering from the cold - has only just returned from his bereavement leave: his mother died just a month ago. The dementor would be drawn to this sorrow like a moth to a flame.

Q calls out to the five employees in the room, trying very hard to keep his voice level. “Alright then; you’re dismissed for the day, everyone.”

“But sir, we were going to - ”

“OUT,” Q hollers, panic beginning to sink in. He’d never forgive himself if anything were to happen to his muggle employees. Thankfully, his harsh tone prompts the technicians to scurry away, leaving Q alone with the dementor in the empty, underground warehouse.

He draws his wand as the dark, hooded creature turns toward him, and -

 _He cannot conjure his patronus_.

Q says the incantation, thinks of Luna, thinks of Lorcan and Lysander, thinks of Eve, but it keeps slipping away. All he can think about is that even if James weren’t dead, he might never see him again. He thinks of James, he thinks of those precious times he’s made the other man truly laugh, thinks of the look on his face whenever Q gave him a new toy; but every memory is tinged with grief, with the sorrow of a love lost.

The dementor is practically on top of him, and he falls to the ground, his wand still clutched in his hand. He’s never seen one so close. Its gaping maw is an endless hole; its face thin and gaunt under the cloaked fabric; its hands long and skeletal… he hasn’t been so scared since he was a child. Q’s glasses are frosting up, his breath coming out in puffs of mist, and he can feel the edges of his vision beginning to darken.

There is a sudden, blinding light, and the dementor lets out a shriek as it recoils from the large patronus that has come to stand before Q. Even as he’s carefully dragged across the room and behind a desk, even as his rescuer runs back to face the dementor, he keeps staring at the apparition. It’s a _tiger_ , of all things, and easily the biggest corporeal patronus he’s ever seen.

The dementor must leave, because all at once the wizard who has saved him returns to his side, calling his name as the tiger circles around the pair.

He’s so very tired, and his arms are so heavy, and god, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be warm again.

Q looks up to thank the man, only to see a pair of familiar blue eyes, like the sea in the Caribbean or the sky on a cloudless day. God, but he’d missed him.

Q lets out a sudden, amused snort, even as he feels himself begin to fade. “Of bloody _course_ your patronus would be a tiger.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Q wakes up on the sofa in his flat, his head leaning against an armrest and Minerva stretched out across his stomach.

This is not the most unusual occurrence, but given that the last thing he remembers is passing out in Bond’s arms on the floor of his workshop, he’s a bit perplexed.

He is less perplexed when he turns his head and sees Bond sitting in the armchair across the coffee table, staring at him. The sight of Bond in his apartment, dressed down in a knit sweater and slacks, does funny things to Q’s chest, so he looks away again, sighing deeply.

Only to jolt up two seconds later, his cat scampering off him with an indignant yowl when he wakes her up. He points an accusing finger at Bond.

“You! You were - and there was - the dementor - ”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t a muggle?” Bond interrupts, impatient. Judging by how dark it is outside, he’s been waiting quite some time to ask.

Q sputters. “Why didn’t _you_ tell _me_ that _you_ weren’t a muggle?”

Bond stares at him. “You didn’t _know?_ ”

“Of course I didn’t!”

Bond sits back against his chair, all his indignant frustration evaporating at Q’s admission. “Well then. We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

It would be funny if Q weren’t still trembling slightly, if Bond didn’t have a healing cut along his right cheekbone.

With a sigh Q reaches for his wand (from where Bond had presumably set it on the coffee table), going about making a pot of tea from where he’s sitting. Getting up doesn’t seem like a good idea, considering that his arms alone still felt a bit like jelly.

Bond gets up and walks to the kitchenette, batting away the tea bags as they float toward the waiting pot. At Q’s “Oi!” he shoots the younger man an unimpressed look.

“You’ve nearly been kissed by a dementor. You don’t need tea, you need…” Bond trails off, looking through Q’s cabinets. “Ah, there we go. You need chocolate. Or in this case, hot chocolate.”

Q scowls. “I’m not eight years old.”

“No, but apparently you’re an adult wizard who can’t conjure a patronus,” Bond answers absentmindedly, pouring the instant cocoa package into a mug while he waited for the kettle to boil.

“Lots of people can’t conjure patronuses,” Q says, thinking of those first few months after the war, when it felt like no one would ever get past their grief. “Whether or not someone can summon a corporeal patronus doesn’t define them as a wizard.”

Nevertheless, he waves his wand and out springs his little raccoon. He guides it over to Bond, letting it wind around the agent’s shoulders.

“There. Happy?”

Bond turns sharply, giving Q a glare that seems one part bewildered and one part angry. “You _can_ conjure one?” At Q’s nod, he looks like he wants to tear his hair out. “Then why didn’t you - you could have died, Q! Or worse! What was so different three hours ago that you couldn’t - ”

“You were _dead_ three hours ago, you complete arse!”

Bond stops dead, his eyes wide. “You… what?”

“It’s a bit difficult to conjure a patronus when the most important person in your life has been missing for two _bloody_ months,” Q says quietly, turning away toward the window. It has not escaped his notice that his traitorous patronus is still hovering near Bond, practically sitting on the counter next to him.

Bond doesn’t speak until he brings over Q’s steaming mug of hot cocoa, sitting next to him on the couch after a moment’s hesitation.

“I guess you joined up after the Second War, then?”

“I went to muggle uni first, but yeah.”

Bond nods, and Q suddenly realizes that the agent is struggling just as much as he is to navigate this new territory.

“So you were what, seventeen? When it all…” Bond gestures vaguely.

“Fifteen. I spent a year hiding in a cabin by the shore in Wales. No magic, no contact with anyone. I would have - I’d heard that people were obliviating their muggle parents, sending them away, but I wasn’t old enough, and they….”

The look on Bond’s face tells him he understands, and Q is grateful that he doesn’t have to say it.

“A lot of muggleborns lost their parents,” is what Bond eventually responds with.

Q lets out a derisive snort. “A lot of muggleborns lost their _lives_. I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones.” Q shifts to face Bond more fully, changing the direction of the conversation before he starts to get emotional. “What about you then?”

Bond shrugs. “I was an auror for a while, but after the Second War I figured I’d faced enough dark wizards to last me a lifetime. Thought I’d try my hand at fighting a different kind of enemy.”

“I’m guessing your parents didn’t die in a climbing accident, then?”

“Death eaters, just before Voldemort disappeared that first time.”

Q scoots closer, leaning against Bond’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s a miracle _either_ of us can produce a patronus.”

They’re quiet for a time, Q sipping his cocoa and conjuring his raccoon again, entertaining Bond as he lets his cats chase it to their hearts’ content.

“You know,” Bond says, “It would have been a big help to know you were a wizard. You wouldn’t believe how many wizards you run into in the field.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Like in the Bulgaria Op, if you’d have - ” Bond cuts himself off, and Q sits up fully, his curiosity piqued.

“The Bulgaria mission? Poliakoff was a witch? Was she trying to give you a potion? Is that how you knew? Veritaserum, or…”

Q trails off. He remembered what the drink had looked like, even through the lens of his tiny tie clip camera. There had been a sort of pearly sheen, and it had seemed white and blue and purple all at once.

Amortentia, then. The world’s strongest love potion.

“Ah. Well, that’s unfortunate. I’m sure it wasn’t fun to be suddenly reminded of Dr. Swann like that.”

Bond, who had been sitting very, very still during Q’s little intuitive leaps, tilts his head quizzically at this. “Madeleine?”

Q nods, looking down at his hands and fidgeting with the handle of his mug. “Yes, well. If the potion’s scent is supposed to remind one of the things they’re attracted to, or love, then surely it must have smelled like her perfume or something.”

“It didn’t,” Bond says, watching Q with an inscrutable look on his face. He reaches forward, carefully taking the mug from Q’s hands and putting it down on the coffee table. Bond’s expression when he turns back to Q is hesitant, as if he’s afraid to upset this steady footing they’ve found.

But then, Bond’s always been the more reckless of the two. He reaches forward, cupping Q’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs along the younger man’s cheekbones. “Q, if I’ve got this wrong…”

Q shakes his head, leaning forward until his forehead is pressed against Bond’s. “I couldn’t conjure a patronus because I was so wretchedly unhappy without you. If that doesn’t say ‘I love you,’ I don’t know what else could.”

At this, Bond kisses Q, oh so gently. They stay like that for some time, just the barest brushes of lips, over and over, intimate and soft and _loving_. Finally, Bond pulls away, looking at him with a fond expression, running his thumb across Q’s reddened lower lip.

“It didn’t smell like Madeleine,” Bond says, and at Q’s furrowed brow, he continues. “The amortentia. It didn’t smell like Madeleine.” He pulls Q closer, pressing biting, wet kisses to Q’s neck as he speaks.

“It smelled like Earl Grey,” a nip across Q’s adam’s apple, “and engine grease,” a light suck at the crook of his jaw, “and those cigarettes you smoke when you’ve had a hard day,” a bite to his earlobe, a nuzzle at the soft spot behind his ear, and Q is a breathless mess. Bond leans back to admire his handiwork, smirking as Q’s cheeks redden at the attention.

His smirk fades into something small, something warm as he looks at Q. “It was you. It was always you.”

Q feels like he might cry, and that would ruin the mood, so instead he shoves Bond over until he can straddle the older man, kissing him desperately. “No takebacks,” he pants, and he can feel Bond smile against his lips as strong arms wrap around his waist.

“I would never. Us Hufflepuffs are quite loyal, you know.”

Q laughs, kissing him again, before he freezes, leaning back to look at Bond incredulously.

“You’re a _Hufflepuff_ _?_ ”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> yes, bond is a hufflepuff, i'll die on this hill
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://vesprlynd.tumblr.com)!
> 
> edit: someone pointed out some typos and i couldn't take it


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